


Mischa

by barghest



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Gen, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 03:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barghest/pseuds/barghest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A long lost family member appears at the door of Hannibal Lecter and suddenly his world is lit up. But what will he do when she is kidnapped, and what lengths will he go through to be reunited again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mischa

**Author's Note:**

> based on a prompt:  
> "One way or another, Hannibal is reunited with Mischa. And them someone tries to take her away again. I want Hannibal to completely lose his cool - seriously, we’re talking frothing-at-the-mouth kind of crazy here - and exact horrid, horrid vengeance. Oh, and if you could find some way to squeeze Will in in there somewhere (pre-finale, possibly attempting to chill Hannibal the fuck out) that would be super amazing."  
> ive not been around a lot because ive been busy/working on THIS for so long fucking hell jeez  
> just take it i hope its good and ill update other stuff soon

She’s as beautiful as he remembers.

The sunlight caresses her curls and picks up the gold that hides among them, twisting around her ears and drizzling over her shoulders. It’s been raining, but the skies have cleared in the last few minutes, and, slightly damp, she perches on the hewn steps leading up to Doctor Lecter’s office. He notices the delicate jewels cushioning themselves in her earlobes and the side of her nose, the slight smear of lipstick above her lip where she has rubbed an itch (with right ring finger, he imagines, just like when she was small), the black kitten heels wrapping around her feet. For a moment of silence, she rocks slightly in them, unsure of what to say, as the summer flowers of her perfume roll over him.

"Anniba, it’s-"

He lurches down a step, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the stone, and wraps his arms around her - glancing his fingers over her spine, crushing her curls against his cheeks, feeling her heartbeat rise a little, her breath hitch in relief. The fabric of Mischa Lecter’s dress is rich and red and soft, so soft, and it softens more as she clings back to him. She’s as tall as him, smooth cheek pressing against the five o’clock shadow creeping its way onto his. And she smells the same, even with all the perfume and the foreign sunshine and the years, she smells the same as she did toddling around their garden as a small child. Mischa’s eyes are just as big and watery, but Hannibal doesn’t mind.

"I know," there’s a slight shake in Hannibal Lecter’s voice that he would never admit to if anyone pointed it out, "I know."

—

Hannibal seems almost jubilant, in Will’s opinion. Of course, it’s the quiet pleased that bubbles ferociously beneath the surface as as with every emotion he expresses, but it is there. It’s also there in the slightly increased strength of the tea and the tiny spring in his step when he coasts around his kitchen. Will says nothing on the subject, preferring instead to fold up into one of Hannibal’s kitchen chairs and sniffle over his tea.

At first, he considers the prospect of Dr. Lecter doing the bizarre and having gotten a partner of some form. Either way, he won’t judge - perhaps it will be good for doctor? (Will finds this train of thought usually has him thinking of Alana, so he tries to deviate as soon as possible.) It does seem like a woman’s touch has graced itself on Hannibal’s home; there’s fresh flowers in a tall vase on the table and Will spots a tube of lipstick left on the counter near the sink. When he excuses himself to Hannibal’s downstairs bathroom, there’s a pack of tampons none-too-discreetly tucked in beside the toilet and a small make up stain on the mirror. Hannibal either hasn’t noticed, or doesn’t care.

Will wonders if it would be polite to ask about it.

"It’s excellent to see you, Will," Hannibal gently tips the china teapot towards Will’s cup one evening, supporting it with both hands. He tops up his own cup as well, before setting the pot down and seating himself opposite the special investigator.

"Mhm," Will pulls his jacket around himself a little tighter, before touching his tea. He pauses in thought for a moment, before deciding to broach the subject, "Hannibal, I was wonderin-"

The door opens and Will instinctively trails off mid-sentence. A woman lets herself in, tall and defined in a soft blue dress-and-jacket combination. She shuts the door behind her and shrugs off her jacket before noticing Will. Even from across the room, the maroon of her eyes is strikingly familiar. Rising from his seat, Hannibal pulls out another chair for her - which she hangs her jacket across the back and dutifully sits in - and produces another teacup for her. Their hands brush when she moves to pour for herself, but there’s nothing uncomfortable about it, and Hannibal takes ahold of her fingers very gently when he seats himself once more. Will observes the swirl of his tea instead of looking at either of them.

"Will, I would like you to meet someone," Hannibal’s lips twitch a little bit, and Will detects him repressing a proud smile, "this is my little sister, Mischa." One of Will’s eyebrows disappeared upwards into the mess of his fringe.

"Sister?," he straightens himself up in his chair, trying to appear more like a person (and not a pile of slightly damp and doggy clothing), "you never mentioned you had a sister."

"I don’t mention a lot of things, Will," Hannibal’s free hand lifts his teacup to his mouth. He still holds Mischa’s hand as delicately as if it was porcelain itself, one fingertip gently circling her knuckles.

It occurs to Will that he doesn’t know much about Hannibal’s life at all.

"It is nice to meet you, Will," she sounds like him - the distinctive curve in her accent is lighter and more cultured, but it’s just the same and her words roll off her tongue the same. Her voice lifts him midway through his name - Will wonders silently if she has taken the same profession as her elder brother. "I have been told many things about you."

"Only the non-confidential things, of course," Hannibal is quick to assure him. "You are my friend, after all." Will rolls the tension out of his shoulders, and nods along to the beginnings of a conversation. It starts raining outside, but no one seems to really notice. It’s nice to see Hannibal enjoying himself, Will tells himself.

—

It’s raining heavily when Hannibal’s car crawls to a halt in the mud in front of Will’s house.

The weather batters the windows and the dogs whine from under the blankets, whilst Will adjusts the buckets catching the leaks. Winston’s ears prick up at the rumble of an engine and seven heads raise in interest, seven tails wave slowly as some of the family begin to woof quietly. It has to be only eight in the evening or so, but the sky is dark and tumultous, bringing with anger at nothing in particular. Will straightens up when no knock comes at the door, padding across to one of the windows. The wood of the door is damp as his hand reaches it, but Will doesn’t notice, ignoring the rain as he hops down the steps to the car.

The whitest thing on Hannibal Lecter normally is his teeth, and the bone china he uses when he has particularly favored guests around. Today, the whitest thing is the knuckle, china bones pressing against the skin as he grips the steering wheel. He’s very still, and no amount of tapping on the glass or muffled words through the downpour can bring him to move. Picking his way around the mud cling to the wheels, Will reaches the passenger side and tests the handle. Finding it unlocked, he gently lets himself in and slides into the seat, shutting the brewing storm back outside. Hannibal does not even move a muscle in reaction, chest moving slightly as he inhales.

"Hannibal," the rain is thunderous, but also muffled. Will glances down and nibbles his lip a little bit. "Hannibal, is something the m-"

Will’s words are cut to a choking gurgle as Hannibal lets go of the wheel and lurches sideways, fists clutching the fabric of his sweater. His knuckles press into Will’s throat, as white as before, and his breaths rasp out of the slightly rumpled collar of his shirt. The back of Will’s head smacks against the window and his vision shakes for a moment, before he can refocus on the doctor, who is currently digging his nails into Will’s clothing.

The look in Hannibal’s eyes isn’t unfamiliar. Will has seen it in dogs before, the kind of frothing, ragged look you only see in something wild that needs to be put down. Rabid.

It’s quite terrifying.

"Hannibal," Will croaks against the bones of the doctor’s hands. A low, desperate growl issues from the depths of Hannibal’s throat and his teeth as like fangs beneath his lips. Flecks of foam materialize on those same lips with every ragged exhale. Pressing himself back against the door does nothing but push the hard plastic of its fixtures into his back. Instead, he holds up in surrender, floating them near Hannibal’s wrists.

Hannibal hisses something in Danish, spittle hitting Will’s glasses, before releasing the position he is in. He releases Will’s sweater, fingers untangling from the fabric, but stays with his weight over the other man. “She is gone,” he manages, “she is gone and they took her.” Will slides his hands around the doctor’s wrists - uncharacteristically, they shake between his fingers and he feels compelled to ignore the crushed fabric of his sweater in favor of holding on a little more firmly - in an attempt to ease him off.

"Mischa?" Hannibal’s chin jerks slightly in acknowledgement. "Who took her?," Will assumes his gentlest voice, the voice he reserves only for frightened stray dogs and wounded animals he comes across in the woodland near his home. He gently pushes against Hannibal’s arms, coaxing him back into the driver’s seat. The doctor’s face smoothes over, but he crumples back into his side of the car. There is something very deflated about his posture, something very unusual to see in him. It sets Will on edge a little, just by default. "Who took Mischa, Hannibal."

The doctor’s every muscle tenses, and Will pushes himself away slightly, letting go of his wrists gently. Hannibal mumbles to himself a little until Will can coax him into speaking up a little. He shifts slightly in his feet, and Will leans forward a little to listen to him.

"Who were they."

Hannibal’s lips part slightly, “…don’t know.”

"What was that? I didn’t quite catch that."

"I don’t know."

The strain in his voice softens Will further and his brows furrow, “You don’t-?”

"I don’t know!”, Hannibal’s fist slams into the dashboar and Will immediately lurches back in instinct, shoulders smacking against the cold window. They both breathe heavily, misting the air in front of them, and the rain pounds against the glass. Will’s torso quivers underneath his clothing, but he is the first to regain his composure, straightening up in his seat in an attempt to take a hold on the situation. The doctor’s sides heave and it’s only now that the sloppiness of the Half Windsor knot in his tie comes to Will’s attention. In fact, little things are off about his appearance - scuffed toes on his shoes, the undone button in his shirt near his waist, it’s very unlike him to be this, well, untidy.

"Do you want to come inside," Will offers quietly. Hannibal nods, eyes staring unfocussed at his hands, one of which is cradling the still clenched fist of the other. Opening the door into the rain, Will steps out, boot sinking into the mud, and rounds the car to open the door for the doctor. Hannibal ignores the offered hand, but he accepts the tea and the slightly dog-haired - but warm and dry - sweater once they are inside.

—

A letter arrives late in the evening a few days later, slid under the door when Hannibal is seating himself for dinner. He sets Mischa’s knife and fork down where she won’t sit - after she doesn’t float down the stair and doesn’t criticize his choice of wine - before going to pick it up, weighing the envelope up in his hand. It’s been hand delivered; no postage stamp or address adorn the front, just his name printed in small red letters and a small child’s sticker of a skull. Hannibal ignores it, turning it over slowly in his hands several times to check for any clues to its origins.

Selecting a bone handled letteropener from a drawer, Hannibal slide it carefully underneath the top flap and slit it open.

—

Dear Dr. Lecter,

Greetings, Hannibal! Can I call you Hannibal? I feel like we are friends already, I know so much about you. I have been following your work since your first published papers at John Hopkins. It’s been most invigorating to watch your thoughts progress through your work, it has inspired some of my own opinions and my own paths in life. And now, I am finally writing you a fan letter to show my appreciation after all these years! I’m very excited about your thought patterns when you read this. Will you be gratified? Will you want to meet me?

Have no fear! I have already arranged this. Isn’t that wonderful? As I type this, I am thinking of what I am going to wear when we finally meet. And what are you going to wear too? Tweed? Pinstripe? I imagine you look quite fetching in both. Mischa tells me you suit earthly colors most wonderfully. She does as well! Perhaps more earth than color, but I am sure it means the same really.

But yes! That does remind me of how I have arranged how we are going to meet. I thought it would be nice to have a family reunion, so I will contact you in a few days again when I have made final preparations. I am so excited, good Doctor! I have many of my own papers to show you, I want to hear your opinion on them before I publish them.

Until then, Hannibal!  
Yours truly,

[A shaky, indiscernible signature finishes the page.]

—

"It’s clean of fingerprints," Will leans his backside against his kitchen table, holding the sheet of paper between plastic gloved fingers, "apart from your own at the sides. Are you sure you don’t want me to take this to the Bureau?"

Hannibal’s fringe creeps down his forehead a little when he shakes his head, “thank you, Will, but no.”

"Have you reported her missing yet?"

"They won’t find her," the doctor has collected himself back together, folds as crisp as origami. He sips his tea quietly, watching the liquid from under his eyelashes. Will sets the sheet of paper back down on the envelope and reaches down to scritch the ears of one of his dogs, who has come to investigate the visitor (in the distinct hope that it will receive a treat, as Hannibal has done in the past). He digs into his pocket, setting the dog’s tail wagging expectantly, and tosses the dog treat he discovers up into the air. Snapping it up, the dog pushes its face back into his hand in gratitude, before padding off to rejoin the rest of the family on the half of the living room space that belongs to them. Hannibal doesn’t move through the entire exchange, mug pressed against his lips.

Will waits a few moments before trying again, “they know what they are doing.”

"And I know what I am doing, Will," Hannibal shoots back with a little too much bite, seting his mug down a little too hard on the floor next to his chair.

"They’re experts," Will’s brow furrow a little in concern.

"She is my sister."

"Yes, but," Will pauses and exhales quietly. Even folded into a sagging arm chair, carefully posturing himself to appear relaxed and well put together, the tension in Hannibal’s arms and the steel in his eyes are quite clear. Every finger flex, every twitch is tightly controlled - almost a little too tightly, his movements almost constricted by his worry. He is pretending far too hard to be calm. Will tries not to focus too hard on it, chewing on the dry skin of his lip before continuing, "we can help." No response. "Please, Hannibal."

Lurching up from his chair, Hannibal gathers his coat over one arm and moves to collect the letter from the table. He carefully folds the letter back up, sliding it back into the envelope, when Will sets one hand on his sholder. Through the fabric, the doctor’s muscles tense, and Hannibal shrugs him off before pocketing the envelope and shrugging his jacket on.

"Please let me help, Hannibal," Will hesitates, before pushing himself to hold shaky eye contact for a handful of seconds. Hannibal’s eyes soften, before he turns to the door.

"I will be fine, Will," his voice is quiet, comforting. Will isn’t sure whether the doctor is trying to comfort him, or himself. "I will see you Thursday, the same as always."

—

Dear Dr. Lecter,

I think we are ready to meet, don’t you? Please meet me at [_____________] for [______] this [__________], where I will be hosting a most sumptuous dinner party for us to enjoy! Mischa will be attending with us, which I think is most gracious of her, and we can look at my papers afterwards. I’m looking terribly forward to hearing your opinion on them! [__________________]. And my cooking, of course. Formal attire only, please.

See you there!  
Yours truly,

[the signature has been carefully cut out]

—

"We can get around the black outs," Beverly Katz peers over the paper, holding it gently at the edges in plastic gloved fingers. Gently setting it down, she pushes her hair back over her shoulders, and continues, "but obviously we can do nothing about the cut out at the bottom. You say you couldn’t read it last time?"

Will shakes his head. He crumples a little over Beverly’s shoulders, eyes screwing up behind his glasses as if trying to read more than what’s on the page. He looks like a soggy biscuit to Beverly, drooping a little at the edges and crumbling in the middle from what’s probably worry. She smooths the letter out gently on the table, and studies the carefully made black bars over parts of the message. A handful of lab assistants busy themselves in the background, occasionally whispering something to Beverly and handing her various pieces of equipment. Will pulls his coat more around himself, a dark smear against the clinical whites of the rest of the lab.

"There’s no fingerprints that we can recognize," Beverly tilts her head a little towards Will, "it seems like both the author and the doctor were incredibly careful when handling the paper. There’s virtually no DNA on it at all, and he paper is just generic printer paper sold in thousands of stores across the state, nevermind the rest of America." An assistance bustles over with something about Jack Crawford, just as an imposing figure appears at the door. Beverly doesn’t bother turning to greet him, merely waving a hand to beckon him over as she continues, "because most of it is typed, we can’t do anything for handwriting analysis, especially with the signature gone. You have no idea where that went?," she looks over her safety goggles at Will.

"No," Will pushes his glasses up his nose and shuffles out of the way of the advancing Crawford.

"And you don’t know where Lecter is either?," Jack leans over Beverly’s shoulder to view the note. His eyes narrow as he scans it.

"I don’t," Will swallows, "I don’t know. He wasn’t at his office when I went for my session today. I think today’s the day." Jack nods curtly, eyes flicking up to the lab assistants milling around nervously, hesitant to get so close to such an important person. "I could call him, if that’d help."

Beverly moves her curious stare to Jack, and Jack pauses in thought for a moment,”try it anyway. We might be able to catch him before he gets hurt,” Will’s eyes widen a little, “or anything like that. In the meantime, Katz here will work on finding out where he’s gone. We will find him, and,” Jack straightens his back, “Mischa. Who is Mischa?”

"His sister," Will offers, hand already clutching his phone in his pocket.

"Sister? Hm," Jack shrugs a little, "I didn’t think he had a sister. Interesting." For a moment, he seems caught up in musing about this revelation about Hannibal’s family, but he snaps back to the matter at hand after a few seconds, "Doctor Lecter is our priority, but she, Mischa, that is, won’t be forgotten. We need to defuse the situation before anyone gets injured." Everyone nods, eager to get into action, and Will moves away, phone emerging from his pocket as he walks. He clutches it a little too tightly as he searches for Hannibal’s number.

"Please, Hannibal," Will whispers as he raises to the phone to his ear, listening desperately for the doctor to pick up, "don’t do anything stupid."

—

"Stupid" is not a word in Hannibal Lecter’s vocabulary.

Well, of course, it is. Stupid is a word in most people’s vocabularies, given that it is a fairly simple word, with only two syllables and six letters and a very simple meaning. It just is not a word Hannibal uses to describe himself. He is not stupid, he does not do stupid things. At the present moment, he could feel himself losing a little bit of his regular control and possibly allowing more room for error - but given the circumstances, he believes he can forgive himself for an occasional stupid thought. And nothing to do with rescuing his sister is remotely stupid.

Following the typed directions of someone who is clearly a mad man to a derelict former Italian restaurant a few streets from his office is not stupid.

Greeting him, despite the obvious aura of danger around him, and politely requesting what is on the menu is not stupid.

Sitting opposite the most non-descript human being in the world for dinner is not stupid.

Picking up your knife and fork is not stupid.

The pie is steak and kidney, the menu tells Hannibal. It smells divine - the crisp, warm scent of the pastry mingles near perfectly with the rich interior - but he can’t help but feel like there’s something wrong about the meat on the inside. His knife sinks into the crust, pushing the pie into delicate sections. (As delicate as pie can go.) Across the table, the non-descript humanoid - who introduces himself as Student K - digs into his own plate of food, tearing the pie to pieces in a matter of sections and proceeding to fold the thick gravy messily over the insides of the pie. Hannibal watches it seep into the vegetables over the edge of his wine glass. Student K talks throughout the first ten minutes of them meeting, one hand constantly gesticulating in an animated fashion as he blurts out his enthusiasm for Dr. Lecter’s work and his keen interest with working with him in future. Hannibal pretends not to see the splodge of gravy that appears on the man’s shirt.

"Where is my sister?," he offers at last, setting down his knife and fork. Student K pauses mid-medical-barrage and perks up.

"Oh! Oh, I do declare," the energy with which he springs to his feet irritates Hannibal a little, "I have been quite rude, haven’t I? Let me fetch her." He bounces off behind the restaurant’s counter, and through the door into the kitchen. The second he is out of sight, Hannibal’s cutlery are back into his hands and gently prizing apart the meat on the inside of the pie. He picks at it carefully, until the pieces of kidney emerge from the steak, before scraping off the gravy for a closer look. The scent intensifies, and becomes revoltingly - even for a distinguished cannibal as himself - familiar.

Human kidney.

No time is given to study it more - Hannibal’s head jerks up at the sound of wheels and a wheelchair emerges from behind the counter, wheeled by the illustrious Student K. He rises to get a good look at the chair’s occupant, and almost stumbles back down into his seat immediately.

She’s pale and unfeeling. Porcelain under the dim lighting, it’s almost as if there are cracks in her skin. Her nail polish is chipped, her make up smeared like badly applied paint, it is almost as if she is crumpled into the wheelchair. Her curls are dulled. She is an angel with her wings clipped. She is caged bird, and Hannibal Lecter almost propels himself out of his seat in his wish - his need, his fraternal desire - to be close to her and protect her once again. He has failed up until this point, and he is poised to launch himself to her protection, forget the human kidney meat in his dish, forget the bizarrely non-descript man behind the wheelchair. Forget the dim light and Will Graham and the outside world in favour of holding her hand and assuring her that everything is alright.

Of course, it is not. The darkness between her lips when she tries to mumble his name tells him everything is far from okay. Her breathing seems shaken, slightly laboured with the understanding that nothing is okay right now. Hannibal’s foot connects with the table leg, and he stops, lets himself sink down into the chair again. He has to help her, but he must be careful. He must be composed again.

Student K - Hannibal muses over the choice of name, given it’s clearly not the real one, even for such a non-descript human being as this one - parks Mischa at the side of the table, an equal distance between him and Hannibal. His lips tug upwards in a pleased smile, as if confident in his position. Hannibal locks eyes with his sister, desperately trying to convey that everything will be okay, he will make it so. With time, but it will be okay.

"See!," Student K tugs a curl of Mischa’s hair as he reseats himself, "she’s all okay."

"I see," Hannibal swills his wine around his glass quietly. "May I ask, why do you call yourself Student K?" The student in question straightens up in his chair, excited to have garneredd some true interest from the man of his obsessions. He stabs a carrot with a little too much enthusiasm and waves it aloft.

"Good question!" The doctor would later tell his sister that, at this precise moment, he resisted the intense urge to reach over the table and place the student’s fork within his eye. "It’s actually all down to you, you know. Do you remember conducting that small experiment when you first came to John Hopkins?"

One of Hannibal’s thin eyebrows raises a little, just a tad.

"Of course you do! Well," the carrot arcs through the air, somehow still attached to the man’s fork, "in the experiment, you had patients labelled from A to O, according to what was wrong with them, and the object of the experiment was to push them to their limit to appease someone. Patient K, after all, was the one who developed a version of Stoc-kkkrnkk.”

The delicate fork, cleaned of gravy, that had sat between Hannibal’s fingers has found itself in the non-descript man’s throat. Hannibal himself is halfway across the table, left knee sending the wine bottle flying. The non-descript man’s hands twitch and twist on the table, unable to comprehend what had just happened.

Without blinking, Hannibal calmly asks of him, “is the kidney in the pie my sister’s.”

He is rewarded with a croak of affirmation and blood mixing with indignant spittle on the man’s lips.

"Did you really think taking my sister would endear you to me."

"Mishhhhkk," the man pushes for the last syllable, but it fades into a gargle as Hannibal pushes the knife in further. Off on the coat stand, in his coat pocket, his mobile rings for the fifth time since he arrived.

"Don’t say her name," his voice is soft, but it does not hide the sharp edge of distaste that lies underneath. "You don’t deserve to say her name. Answer my question." The non-descript man yelp-splutters a wet yes! as Hannibal’s knife positions itself incredibly close to his right eye. "That is quite a shame."

Mischa’s eyelids flutter.

"You claim to be my biggest fan," Hannibal leans a little weight on the fork in the non-descript man’s throat, "yet you clearly know nothing of me at all."

It’s not quite the grand speech he would have wanted to do. It is not as planned or as carefully prepared as all of his miniature speeches to Will, or the gentle words he gives his clients as they step through the exit of his office. There really isn’t much planning to it at all, come to think of it. The heat in the back of Hannibal’s eyes and the chambers of his heart flares up, as Mischa’s own heart thuds gently against her ribcage in the wheelchair beside him.

Mischa, he cannot do this in front of Mischa.

Sliding off the table, Hannibal’s arms hoist the non-descript man out of his chair - toppling it backwards in the process - and drag him across the floor, gargling in protest, behind the bar and into the kitchen. The doors swing closed behind them and Hannibal’s hands find the carving knives before the still breathing body hits the tiles. He swivels on his heel and drives one into each of the man’s shoulders, spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. His heartbeat surges in his chest, thrusting itslf against his ribcage in the anger - the indignation - that this man, this non-descript human being, dare touch his sister, dare do such horrible things to her and dare! Dare to think that would make them friends. Dare to hurt his Mischa, the last tie he has to the old world and gentler times.

It almost brings tears from the eyes of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, respected therapist and cannibal, revered by those in the crowded study halls of university psychology departments to those in the darkest holes of Lithuania, those who feast on knowledge and flesh. Those who spit blood and apologies and confusion under his hands, those who grovel and play friendly at dinner parties, for the chance of conversation. Those who are damp and crumpled like paper left out in the rain, smelling of dog and fire and fear that taking off their glasses will allow them to see too much. None of them are here now, though, and Hannibal Lecter allows himself a single, furious droplet of a tear to creep down his cheek. The only witness to it is cross eyed in pain and does not notice the bloom of anguish in the man leaning over him, repeatly driving carving knives into the convulsing body below.

It takes twenty plunges of the blade into the non-descript man’s torso for Hannibal to notice what he is doing, to notice he is whispering Mischa, Mischa to himself, that there’s a tear on his cheek and blood on his suit jacket and a growing mess of the kitchen floor. He lets go of the knives and digs his fingers into the man’s mouth, fighting the blood pooling in the throat to tear free the tongue, and stuff it further down, pushing for the trachea. The choking intensifes, but Hannibal doesn’t care. He is shaking, with anger and exertion, as he rocks back onto his heels and sheds his suit jacket. There is no blood on his trousers or shirt, thankfully, and he careful to press the jacket over the dying-dead-forgotten man in front of him.

"You cannot suffer enough," he is calm, he is collected, he is paving over his fury with a sea of gentle composure as he speaks, "for what you have done. I only hope you believe in Hell and that it is worse than you can ever imagine."

The life fades from the non-descript man’s eyes, and, as Hannibal breaks a window at the back of the kitchen and cleans up the mess into a cupboard that is hastily locked, sirens can be heard in the distance.

For Hannibal, they sound almost heavenly.

—

Will isn’t the first police car on the scene, but he leads the ambulance crew to his therapist, kneeling beside a wheelchair bound woman, caressing her visible hand and whispering gentle Lithuanian in her ear. She manages a smile and refuses to let go of his hand as she is lifted onto a stretcher, eyes watching her brother instead of the paramedics as they bark orders to each other and ready the ambulance. Hannibal is almost serene next to her, only tearing his eyes away to inform a paramedic of her missing kidney and a detective of what happened here.

He does not see Will, but, in this instance, Will think that’s just fine.

Jack draws up just as Hannibal is seating himself in the ambulance, hands still stroking the skin of Mischa’s pale knuckles. They find the broken window and the spoiled dinner in the main area of the restaurant, and Hannibal informs them quietly of what happened. A mad man, he says over the beeps of monitors, in the end, he jumped out the window onto the alley and away. He did such horrible things, you must understand. In the moments before the ambulance leaves, his sister agrees, and then the doors close and the lights move off into the night.

The search continues to sweep the area as best as possible - for a very non-descript man, it seems - and checks over the restaurant itself, gathering evidence. No body is found. Two knifes are marked as missing, but then so is a sauce pan and several other utensils. The restaurant has been broken into before, it seems, so no one pays much attention to it.

Later that night, from the comfort of a pile of dogs and a late night black and white film, Will leaves Hannibal a quiet voice mail, hoping everyone will be alright. In the morning, he awakens to a text confirming they are going to be just fine. Will alows himself to half smile when he reads it, before a dog drags him outside to investigate a noise and it slides from his mind. Everything is going to be okay.

—

"She is going back to college to study fashion," Hannibal’s tea is a little sweeter than normal today, but Will sips it politely anway, back against the sunlight streaming through the window. The doctor moves around the table with a basket of croissants and seats himself to butter one, "I expect her to do quite well. She was always a creative type."

"I’m glad she’s going okay. She took to the transplant alright, then?"

Hannibal positively beams, “very well, indeed. Much better than expected, actually. They are most pleased with her progress and are happy for her to start doing light work again. I hear she wants to take up horse riding again.”

"Really?," Will tentatively reaches for croissant. "Sounds good. Ar you glad?"

"I am," the doctor nods gently. "I want her to make the most of her life, and not to ever forget that she always has me."

"She is a lucky woman," Will breaks the croissant messily and motions for the butter to be passed. A lucky sister. "Very lucky indeed."


End file.
